


something meaty for the main course

by Aziz



Series: something meaty for the cold hands [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Attempted Seduction, BUT there is no dub-con and the sex happens without the sex pollen, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying During Sex, Emotional Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intercrural Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Massage, OR IS HE, One Shot, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Scent Kink, Sex Pollen, Sharing a Bed, did i mention flirting, jaskier is horny and geralt is oblivious, jaskier's trying to get into geralt's pants but he keeps failing, not on jaskier or geralt tho, wearing your doublet unbottoned is basically a bra-out look fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziz/pseuds/Aziz
Summary: Five times Jaskier wants, tries and fails, and the one time he gets exactly what he wants when he least expects it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: something meaty for the cold hands [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657666
Comments: 45
Kudos: 1145
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	something meaty for the main course

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: I have not read the books yet; this is all based on the Netflix adaptation. English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes you might find. Not beta read, we die like men.

**I**

Jaskier likes interesting people. He doesn’t like being bored, he wants to live, eager and excited, he wants love and heartbreak; interesting people are never boring, live to the fullest and they are easy to love and even easier to let slip away. Jaskier likes interesting people.

The mountain of a man, brooding alone in a dark corner of the tavern, hair white as snow, definitely seems like an intriguing person. He intrigues Jaskier’s deepest, most basic desires, and frankly, that’s all the wrong reasons to be intrigued by a man that looks like he could effortlessly snap Jaskier in half in a small rural town in the middle of nowhere.

But gods, has Jaskier ever worried about doing the right thing, the smart thing? Besides, he can run fairly fast.

So he sits opposite this intriguing, broad-shouldered, handsome man and tries to coax some conversation out of him, so he can decide if it is even worth his effort to try and persuade him to spend the night – or the afternoon – or even an hour, really, – with him. He’s even bigger up close, and that’s with the table between them. Jaskier wonders how big would the man seem if they were chest to chest, if Jaskier was beneath him… he’s getting ahead of himself. But he notices the (very pretty) golden eyes and the (very big) swords and suddenly, all the pieces fall into place.

_A witcher._

Something stirs deep in Jaskier's gut and it most definitely is not fear. Jaskier's brain is not very good at making good decisions, but his heart (and, by extension, his dick) couldn't make a good decision to save his life.

“I know who you are.”

The decision that his heart makes in this moment is this: he will follow this witcher, Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, anywhere he goes. He will follow him, in the sun and in the rain, he will follow him until his feet are raw and bleeding. It is not a new feeling - Jaskier falls in love easily, and when he falls, he falls quick and deep.

Most would say that it is not be the best idea to follow around a witcher - a lone monster slayer, constantly in harm's way - but Jaskier thinks it's brilliant. Witchers are frowned upon by society, hated and feared yet needed, and Geralt of Rivia is most definitely in need of some good publicity. Jaskier needs someone intriguing to compose ballads about and if that weren't enough, he's also falling head over heels for Geralt (or, more accurately, he's lusting after him urgently, but to Jaskier, lust and love are just a hair's width away, almost synonymous, the former always quickly followed by the latter - quickly enough that Jaskier manages to fall in love five times in the span of one evening).

And so Jaskier follows Geralt out of the tavern, on a quest to slay the devil stealing locals' grain, and does not turn back at Geralt's annoyed grunts (annoying people is what Jaskier _does_ ) and not even the punch to his gut deters him. He can be too determined for his own good.

They end up tied up and beaten, and, for a moment, Jaskier worries he might die there, bound to Geralt of Rivia, the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, who smells like onion and horse and probably does not like to be called the Butcher of Blaviken and is, frankly, one of the most beautiful people Jaskier has ever met. But he does not. Geralt saves them, not with his sword, but with his words. Jaskier gets a new lute for all his trouble, a piece of art that produces sounds sweeter than mead and clearer than crystal when Jaskier plucks the strings. Geralt gives the elves all the money the people of Posada gave him for the contract, even though the word is that witchers don't care about anything but coin, and Jaskier falls a bit deeper, a bit harder, because he's not only an intimidating mountain of muscle, he's also _good_ , deep down.

Jaskier starts composing a ballad about the events of the day, about Geralt, about them.

_“When a humble bard graced a ride along with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song…”_

Geralt inspires him so much that his words flow freely, the correct one always _right there_. The lyrics write themselves and the chords to compliment them come to him easily, naturally. He has a good feeling about this one - this song will definitely get him coins thrown at him instead of day-old bread. Geralt works wonders for Jaskier's creativity. It is at this moment - when Jaskier plays the song in full for the first time, for Geralt's ears only, and Geralt simply _hmm_ s, but Jaskier hears (or, more probably, just imagines) a bit of appreciation, a bit of fondness - that Jaskier decides to stay and stick by the witcher's side for as long as he can.

He also unbuttons his doublet, because he pretty much sweat through it when he thought they were going to die. He keeps it open even when he no longer feels sticky and damp, because Geralt does not seem offended in the slightest. Jaskier feels like trying his luck one more time today; Geralt already does not fit in – he’s a witcher, and as far as Jaskier knows, he’s the only one with his hair mutated white… and the only one that doesn’t always kill, the only one that would give all his coin to starving elves – there might be one more odd thing about him. Jaskier hopes the sight of his undershirt will rile Geralt up to the point where he won’t be able to control himself anymore and will drag Jaskier into some shrubbery where he properly ravages him.

Before Geralt can even ask, Jaskier spins a tale about how he, coincidentally, is heading the same way as the witcher, and when Geralt grunts in response and does not call him out on his lie, Jaskier counts it as a win. The big bad White Wolf must be warming up to him, most likely because of the unbuttoned doublet. Jaskier knows he is pretty, and he must look outright tantalizing, with his doublet opened, showing the tunic underneath as well as the spot where the waist of his pants accentuates his figure.

He looks like a fucking snack.

They walk through the Valley of Flowers and continue following the dirt road. Jaskier idly plucks at the strings of his new lute, repeats his new song again and again under his breath to commit it to memory. When he’s not playing, he talks about nothing in particular, because he’s used to running his mouth. Talking, babbling, rambling – it makes him feel nice. Staying quiet and bottling things up has never worked for him: his tongue itched with idleness, his teeth hurt as he ground them together just to _move_ his mouth, even the smallest amount, his mind full of useless things that muddled the actually important thoughts, like rhymes and melodies and rhythm and stories. Geralt stays mostly quiet. He hums and sighs exasperatedly and, on occasion, _growls_ , but he never actually tells Jaskier to stop, to _shut up_ , so Jaskier does not.

When the sun starts dipping beyond the horizon and bathes everything in a beautiful golden light (which sets Geralt’s eyes aflame, Jaskier notes, and then he thinks, hey, he should use that in a song), they stop and set up a camp. Jaskier makes himself useful and helps with gathering firewood meanwhile Geralt hunts for something to eat. They roast the kill over the fire and eat in silence.

Jaskier has had a long day and his legs hurt from the long walk, but despite that he’s still restless, buzzing with energy. He assumes this is it, the moment the witcher will take him into his strong arms, capture his lips in a bruising kiss, push him into the ground hard enough that it will dig uncomfortably into Jaskier’s shoulder blades. He expects to be bitten, thoroughly used and filled up, and he’s looking forward to it. He’s been looking forward to it the whole day, ever since he first laid his eyes on Geralt this morning.

Gods, he wants Geralt to take him so bad –

And Geralt must want him, too, after watching Jaskier prance around with his undershirt out. Must be so turned on he might pop off some of the buttons on Jaskier’s shirt in his haste to get it off. Jaskier would not mind in the slightest. The pure _power_ radiating from Geralt’s body is what pulled Jaskier in in the first place. He wants to be tossed around, pinned down, fucked so hard and deep he will be walking funny for a few days.

But Geralt, surprisingly, does not make any move to fuck Jaskier.

 _Maybe he’s just shy_ , Jaskier thinks. _Maybe he has never been with a man before_. Jaskier usually likes to be pounced on; likes to be taken and devoured without much ado; but if he has to take the reins, he won’t protest.

He fiddles with the top buttons of his undershirt, and, looking at the witcher from under his lashes, he says, “Geralt,” in a tone he knows works wonders on hesitant men.

Geralt's eyes flick up to him. Sharp and unreadable and molten gold. Geralt's looking at Jaskier's face, entirely ignoring his nimble fingers playing with the button of his shirt. The witcher grunts and turns his face back to the fire.

Jaskier blinks, confused. He tries again, “Ger _alt_ ,” draws out the second syllable teasingly, bats his eyelashes, bites his lip –

“Oh, fuck off,” Geralt snaps, staring into the flames. “Can't you fucking shut up?”

“Come and make me,” Jaskier replies quickly, unable to keep the smirk off his face. _Yes, come here,_ Jaskier thinks, _come here, shut me up with your big hands and big cock_ – _pin me down, fuck me up, own me, make me yours –_

Geralt growls, “Just… shut up,” and it sends a shiver down Jaskier's spine, but Geralt does not sound aroused in the slightest. He's not telling Jaskier to shut up in a sexy way. He just sounds annoyed. Tired.

He's obviously not interested – not right now, anyway.

Jaskier's charms did not work on Geralt. In his attempt to rile Geralt up – with the unbuttoned doublet – he only managed to rile _himself_ up, with all the daydreams and fantasies and delicious anticipation. He's warm under his collar meanwhile his flirting left Geralt cold.

Jaskier is a little embarrassed. He's not really used to being rejected this far into seducing someone. He definitely is not used to working himself up like this only to be left waiting, wanting, without any other mean of release – since Geralt does not want to fuck him, he likely won't want to listen to Jaskier as he gets himself off. “Sorry,” he says. “I'll be quiet.” _I'll go to sleep,_ is what he means.

Well, the day could have ended much worse than with him not getting some, Jaskier considers as he lays down on the still-warm, dry ground, holding his new precious lute close to his chest. He could have died.

**II**

Geralt smells like blood and rot and digestive fluids – since he was, quite literally, in the belly of the beast only an hour ago. The odour is heavy, acidic and coppery and Jaskier would be gagging if he was not already rather familiar with the smell of dead monsters after all his adventures with the witcher. Now he just scrunches up his nose, remembers to breathe through his mouth and hopes he won't be able to taste it on his tongue.

Geralt peels off his dirty, soaked clothes, and tosses them carelessly on the ground. As he gets into the steaming water, he closes his eyes and hums in appreciation, and Jaskier exploits this moment of inattention to quickly gather Geralt’s soiled clothing and entrust a young, wide-eyed maid with getting it washed.

When that’s taken care of, Jaskier can focus all his attention on one very naked and very handsome Geralt of Rivia.

Ever since that first night that ended up with Jaskier not getting into Geralt’s pants, he has seen the witcher naked countless of times. When sleeping outside, they bathed together in lakes and rivers; when sleeping inside, they occasionally shared a tub when money was low. That did not mean that Jaskier would ever get enough of seeing Geralt naked, quite the opposite – Jaskier still felt a little hot and bothered every time he caught sight of his strong arms, his muscled back, sculpted chest or powerful thighs, he just got very good at hiding it. Geralt was a very attractive specimen of a man and Jaskier simply could not help himself, most likely because he, so far, has not had first-hand experience with how that big, well-built body felt against his own.  
So Jaskier looked, and he looked often. Geralt might have caught him once or twice, but that was when their companionship was still fresh and he probably interpreted it as the bard being naturally curious and intimidated by Geralt’s mass – which couldn’t be further from thruth. Jaskier was everything _but_ intimidated. Captivated, charmed, fascinated, enthralled, intrigued. There was not an ounce in Jaskier’s body that felt intimidated by the witcher, that was scared of him.

And looking at naked Geralt was not the only thing Jaskier indulged in, not by a long shot. Sometimes he got to _touch_ naked Geralt, when the stars aligned just right (and the stars aligned rather often). Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion that today is one of those days.

“Would you like my assistance?” Jaskier asks and tries to keep the glee out of his voice.

Geralt _hmmm_ s in agreement and it sounds nicer than anything Jaskier has heard from Geralt in the last week.

Jaskier fishes a bottle of scented oil out of his bag. It’s chamomile, a scent that is both pleasant and faint enough that Geralt won’t complain. Jaskier would probably not bother to carry this one around if it weren’t the only one that Geralt tolerates on himself. He uncorks the bottle and pours some into his hand.

Geralt leans his back against the tub and sticks his legs out. With this movement, he sinks deeper into the water and it licks at his chin, his hair floating on the surface of the water like silvery tentacles of some deep-sea monster Jaskier has never heard about.

Jaskier takes Geralt’s right foot into his hands and starts working on the strained muscles, the skin under his fingers warm from the hot water. Geralt closes his eyes, relaxing, and lets out a long breath. Jaskier likes seeing Geralt like this. A lot. Even with bits of selkiemore still in his hair, he looks beautiful. This is the most vulnerable Jaskier has ever seen him – naked, eyes closed, swords out of reach – and Jaskier is glad he is able to witness this. He is glad he has been able to witness this _multiple times_. What’s _even better_ , Jaskier is the one making this happen, making Geralt relax. He values the trust Geralt has in him, to let him see him like this, to let him take care of him, touch him. And touching Geralt, touching his bare skin, feeling the hair and the scars, is _so nice_.

Jaskier’s hands slowly move upwards on Geralt’s leg, massaging his calf. He imagines Geralt walking all the way from the lake here, wet and sticky with blood and gastric juice and gods-know-what-else in the freezing weather. He already knows that Geralt cares little about the temperature outside, thanks to his slow heartbeat, but it still sounds uncomfortable at best.

He stops at the middle of Geralt’s thigh, slicks his hands with more chamomile oil and moves onto Geralt’s left leg. He does not dare wander his hands higher, too close to the part of Geralt's body that he wants to touch more than anything. They have known each other for some time now and Jaskier still holds hope that he might get up close and personal with Geralt's cock at least once sometime in the future. Geralt is his dearest friend (a very sexy dearest friend) and what's a little friendly fuck between two great pals? Especially if one of those pals has arms as thick as Jaskier's thighs and an enormous manhood and the other one is a slut. Jaskier has been envisioning it a lot – those broad shoulders hunched over his smaller frame, those big hands gripping his hips tight – most often when they had enough coin to rent two separate rooms and he could really get into the fantasy, with his hand down the front of his pants.

Even now, as he works his hands up Geralt's leg, he can't stop himself from thinking about it. _Gods_ , he could reach out, wrap his fingers around the girth of him and stroke him to full hardness. His hand is so _close_.

"Show me your back," Jaskier says when he's finished massaging Geralt's legs. The witcher does as he's told without so much as a blink, sitting up in the tub and hunching forward, offering Jaskier his scarred back.

Jaskier slicks his hands once more and presses his thumbs into the hard knots there, working the oil into Getalt's skin with practiced movements. Jaskier will never understand how people could call Geralt’s scars ugly and frightening. Each one of them told a story of Geralt’s strength and bravery. Jaskier found that pretty hot. He would like it if Geralt didn’t get any more, though. Geralt always got better, his wounds healing much faster than a human’s, but that did not mean that Jaskier could just ignore the fact that Geralt got hurt. He is his _friend_ , and friends _care_ when the other gets injured.

Jaskier continues lower, to the small of Geralt’s back, and then, feeling courageous, he leans down as far as he can without falling into the tub, slips his hands on Geralt’s ass and starts kneading the muscle. Geralt does not even flinch.

There’s too much water in the tub so it soaks the sleeves of Jaskier’s tunic even though he has rolled them them up above his elbows beforehand, but Jaskier pays it no mind; he has never planned on wearing this one to the betrothal anyway.

Only when Jaskier feels his neck cramping up, he realizes he’s constantly bending it backwards in the instinctual effort not to bump into Geralt. He definitely can’t play for the royal court all night with a cramp in his neck. Slowly, he rests his forehead against Geralt’s wet, warm back. The witcher no longer smells like monster entrails – he smells like chamomile. Jaskier feels the hardness of a shoulder blade under Geralt’s flesh. Jaskier allows himself to close his eyes and focus on rubbing at Geralt’s ass.

He’s so close, hard and lean and warm and Jaskier _has his hands on his ass_. It’s a wonderful feeling.

It’s also pure torture, because Jaskier wants _more_. He’s a greedy, selfish bastard, but touching Geralt is definitely not enough for him. He wants Geralt to touch him in return – wants Geralt to wrap a hand around his throat. Pin his wrists above his head. Grip his hips so hard they’ll bruise. Push his fingers _inside_ him. Pet his hair as Jaskier goes down on him. There’s so many things Jaskier wants Geralt to do to him, too many to even count.

This close, it’s hard to ignore these thoughts. Jaskier is starting to feel warm, a mix of his dirty thoughts and the steaming-hot water.

“Geralt,” he whispers, lips only inches from the witcher’s skin. He swallows and tries again, a bit louder this time: “Geralt.”

Geralt hums and it sounds amused. Jaskier feels it rumble deep within Geralt, resonate against his forehead. “And here I was thinking I finally got my blessed silence,” Geralt says. There’s no venom in it – it’s mundanely emotionless, like almost everything Geralt ever says. Jaskier knows that’s pretty much as good as it gets. When he considers how annoyed Geralt was when he first heard about Jaskier’s plans for them for tonight, he counts it as a win.

“I was thinking,” Jaskier explains, “I was thinking and I’ve got an idea how to sweeten the deal.” He speaks those words with intent, straight into Geralt’s back, each and every one of them heavy and hot, ghosting over a long, pale line of an old scar. He’s hoping he’ll bribe Geralt with sex. He’s hoping that when he makes it come off as a payment, as a reward, as compensation, Geralt will finally fuck him.

His hands are still firmly kneading Geralt’s ass.

“I said I’m not going,” Geralt growls. The tone makes Jaskier’s bones vibrate and the hair at the nape of his neck rise. “There’s nothing you can offer that would make me change my mind.”

“Come on, Geralt –“ Jaskier whines.

“I want _nothing_ from you,” Geralt bites back.

Jaskier’s hands still, and then he’s pulling away, standing up straight. “Fine.” Geralt is not going to fuck him today. Jaskier is disappointed, sure, but he’s used to it – to Geralt not fucking him. He does not take it personally, it’s just a fact. _Today is a wonderful day: the sun is shining, the birds are singing and Geralt won’t fuck him._ He stretches, because his spine hurts a little from being bent over like that, and he dries his hands.

He grabs a nearby bucket, lets it fill with the water from the tub and then pours it over Geralt’s head. And as Geralt starts rubbing at the dried selkiemore blood on his forehead, he sets the bucket down and starts anew. “Now now, stop your boorish grunts of protest,” he tells Geralt. “It is one night bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world, how hard could it be.”

**III**

They had heard of the problem this village was facing in advance. One woman came to them after Geralt had collected the payment for killing the local noonwraight and told them that just a few miles east is the village she had married here from. She was visiting her mother just a week ago and she saw the people putting up a notice, promising generous pay in exchange for help, though there were no other details.

Geralt and Jaskier arrived in the town the next morning and were promptly welcomed by what must have been all the women from the village. Usually, the only women that dared to come close to the witcher were paid whores, and men were the braver ones. But here, the opposite was true: the women were overjoyed, looking at Geralt with relief in their eyes, some even smiling, while the men nervously shuffled their feet, keeping their distance.

“Mister witcher, you are a blessing sent by the gods themselves,” said one woman. There were two little children half hiding under her skirts, staring at Geralt with their mouths wide open.

Jaskier could see Geralt’s face twitch for a split second, his eyes betraying his surprise at such a warm welcome. He quickly schooled his face into his usual expression of disinterested indifference when he noticed Jaskier watching him, though.

“What seems to be the problem?” Geralt asked.

“There’s something in the woods,” the woman said. “We don’t know what, but it makes our men come home in a frenzy – “

“Insane with lust,” one cut in.

“Terribly horny,” quipped another.

“ – with only one thing on their mind,” the first woman finished, sending a quick dirty look to the other two. “Often for the whole night. In better cases, they leave us drained – “ she beckoned a girl no older than twenty to push the hair falling over her eye to the side; when she did, Jaskier and Geralt saw a nasty, purple bruise, her eye almost swollen shut “ – but they get violent if we resist.”

Jaskier gulped. This was terrible. He looked around – there were women with bruises blooming around their wrists and forearms, but many seemed unharmed. They all had dark circles under their eyes that spoke of restless nights and mornings of sickness. A certain tiredness was etched into every feature of their faces.

“I’ll help you,” Geralt said. He usually asked about the price before agreeing to anything, but he must have been so moved by the women’s plight that he would work first and worry about money later. _Another proof that Geralt of Rivia has a heart,_ Jaskier thought. Geralt’s gaze shifted to the men standing nearby. “I need to talk with everyone that was affected,” he announced, and Jaskier could hear the faintest edge in his voice.

They had interrogated them all, but with little result. They all said they did not remember much from the nights they were affected – just the feeling of an all-consuming, scorching _need_ , robbing them of all reason, inhibitions or compassion.

“I would never do something like that, I swear,” the husband of the girl with the black eye told them. He was just as young as her. His eyes got glassy, talking about that night. “I love her, and now she looks at me and she’s _afraid_. She’s afraid of _me_ and I _hate_ it.”

Jaskier wondered what awful kind of magic made loving husbands into insatiable monsters violating their poor wives. The thought of losing control in such a manner made his skin crawl. He liked sex, hell, he _loved_ sex, with men and women alike, but he could never imagine forcing himself onto someone unwilling. There was no fun, no pleasure in a partner that did not want it.

At first, Geralt thought it was some kind of a mushroom that grew on trees and exuded spores that acted as a potent aphrodisiac when inhaled or absorbed, dissolved in sweat, through the skin, but he quickly rejected that idea because he remembered that it only grew in climates much warmer than this one. Then, finally, Geralt caught glimpse of a healing wound under the collar of one of the men’s shirt. Bite mark. When asked about it, the man said that he did not recollect getting it and that he only noticed it two days after being affected, because after spending the whole night fucking his wife again and again he was so exhausted he slept through the next day. He said it itched and he was constantly tempted to scratch it raw. The other men then confessed that they all had similar wounds – some on their neck, some on their shoulder, one even on his thigh.

It did not bring them much closer to figuring out what they were up against, but at least they knew that it was a monster.

The men showed Geralt the route they all walked after work from the fields back to the village. It cut through the forest for a little more over half a mile, and this stretch of the way was probably where all the attacks took place.

During the afternoon, Geralt had sharpened his silver sword, while Jaskier begged him to let him come with. “Please, Geralt – I already have an idea for another amazing ballad – I just need to see the action, need to see how you slice whatever this thing is into a hundred pieces.”

“It will be dark,” Geralt retorted, “you won’t see shit.”

“Actually,” Jaskier grinned, “the sky is exceptionally clear today and the full moon is near. I think I’ll see everything just fine.”

Geralt grunted, not in the mood to argue further. Jaskier was pretty sure Geralt gave up so easily because the thing had not killed anyone so far, so there really was no danger of Jaskier getting hurt.

They set off into the forest at sundown. They had stopped approximately in the middle of the length of the path, waiting for the creature to show up. That’s where they found themselves now: Geralt, standing at full attention in the middle of the track, listening for anything suspicious, his eyes calmly scanning the forest around him; Jaskier, sitting on a tree stump just a few steps away, trying to do the same as Geralt and ultimately failing because he did not have a witcher’s enhanced hearing or a witcher’s night vision.

They have been here for quite some time. Jaskier would guess two hours. To say that he is bored would be the understatement of the century. Geralt has told him that he has to keep quiet so that Geralt can focus – his breathing and his heartbeat will be distraction enough. Jaskier did not like being quiet, especially when the decision was not his to make. But he is getting better at it, thanks to spending time hunting monsters with Geralt, because he realizes that sometimes, staying quiet is the only thing keeping him alive, other than Geralt himself. Also, he cannot complain, since it was him who has begged Geralt to let him come with just a few hours prior, not the other way around.

But his tongue just won’t sit right in his mouth and his vocal chords are simply _dying_ to make a sound, so he whispers, “Geralt?”

Geralt turns to face him, quick, sword at the ready – and when he notices it is only Jaskier and no monster, he gives him the nastiest look, his gold eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“What if it does not come tonight?” Jaskier asks. Geralt keeps looking at him in a way that screams _shut your mouth_ , but he seems to consider Jaskier’s words. “I mean, we are two handsome men in their prime, and we have been waiting around for quite some time, so it makes one think that if the thing wanted to bite someone tonight, we would have already seen it.”

Geralt _hmm_ s.

“We can try again tomorrow,” Jaskier continues, not bothering to keep his voice low anymore. “If there even _is_ any monster. Maybe all those men are not victims, but horrible rapists that deserve to burn in hell.”

“What about the bite marks, though?” Geralt objects. “Putting aside the incredible stamina they exuded the night they were affected – one woman said she had lost count after five. _Five_! Jaskier, that number is unattainable for most ordinary humans, and entirely impossible for anyone over thirty.”

 _Fuck, five?_ Jaskier is both terrified and thrilled by the thought. _Five!_

“It was just an idea,” he shrugs, sheepish, “people are sometimes horrible to each other.”

“I don’t think this is the case,” Geralt mutters. “But you are probably right about the other thing. If the thing was hungry tonight, it surely would have already come out of hiding.”

Jaskier smiles a triumphant smile because _of course he’s right_. Jaskier is right all the time, except the times he is not. Geralt helps him up and they start the walk back to the village.

In that moment, something snaps between the trees to Jaskier’s left – and Geralt immediately pulls him behind himself by his right arm, unsheathing his silver sword, putting himself between Jaskier and the source of danger.

When Jaskier focuses, he can see a woman standing there. Her skin is pale, almost white in the moonlight, and her hair is black like raven’s feathers. She is utterly beautiful and also very, very naked.

“A bruxa,” Geralt growls.

For a second, everything is still. In the next, the bruxa charges after Geralt just as Geralt raises his sword. She dodges the strike and bares her teeth, swinging at him with a clawed hand. Geralt takes a step back, brings his sword down on her once again – the silver burning the bruxa’s hand. She howls in pain and lunges after the witcher, shoving him to the ground, scratching at his armor. Geralt punches her in the face with his free hand and the strength of the blow pushes her off of him and she lands on her side a few feet away.

She is already standing while Geralt is still scrambling to his feet, quicker and more agile than him. Her eyes land on Jaskier, terribly dark and terribly deep.

Jaskier would run if he weren’t frozen in place. His life flashes before his eyes as the bruxa leaps after him and tackles him to the ground, as she opens her mouth and sinks her teeth into Jaskier’s shoulder, ripping his doublet.

It hurts. It _hurts_ and the pain is sharp and white hot. Jaskier screams.

Finally coming to his senses, he pushes and kicks at the bruxa to get her off of him.

And then she goes completely limp against him. He feels something warm soaking the fabric on his stomach and something hard and pointy poking his belly every time he breathes in. He looks down between himself and the bruxa and sees the end of Geralt’s silver sword peeking out of the bruxa’s abdomen, grazing against Jaskier’s stomach as he breathes. There’s dark bruxa blood dripping down the blade and onto Jaskier’s very white shirt, but at the moment, he cannot find it in himself to care about that.

Geralt pulls his sword out of the dead monster, rolls her off of Jaskier. “Are you alright?” he asks.

Jaskier blinks. His shoulder hurts and his blood is hot on his skin as it is leaking out of the wound. He’s very light-headed right now. But he is definitely alive, and that’s what’s important. “Um, yeah,” he says, “yes, quite, uh – “

Geralt hums and turns to examine the dead bruxa. Jaskier sits up and watches him. The bruxa’s mouth is red with blood. _His_ blood. _Fuck_.

Geralt puts his thumb in her mouth, pushes away her lip so he can take a proper look at her teeth. Studies her eyes, sniffs her hair, takes her hand into his and looks over the claws. Dips a finger in her blood, rubs it between his fingers, sniffs that as well.

The burning in Jaskier’s wound starts spreading through his whole body. His skin suddenly feels way too tight. His skin is itchy. His insides are itchy, too. He is sweating terribly, like he just ran a mile.

“Geralt,” he says, voice weak, “I feel… itchy.”

Geralt’s brows furrow. And then they climb almost half an inch up his forehead. “Fuck,” he says, and kneels down by Jaskier’s side. He tears at his doublet and shirt and Jaskier would be mad at him for that if the cold night air hitting his clammy skin didn’t feel so divine.

“It was a mongrel,” Geralt mutters. “A succubus and a bruxa. Don’t know how it happened, but it feeds on blood – and infects you with insatiable lust.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier whines. He feels himself getting hard. He’s burning up from the inside. The itch in him gets worse. The sensation of clothes against his skin is terrible. He scratches at his shirt in a vain attempt to get it off. “Fuck, Geralt, I feel so fucking hot.”

Geralt looms over him, huge and strong, smelling delicious. Gods, Jaskier wants him. His dick is painfully hard in his pants and he wants Geralt, needs him, needs him to scratch that itch inside him, _fuck_ –

“Fuck me,” he blurts out, one hand grips Geralt’s arm so hard he’d leave bruises if Geralt were human. His other hand takes hold of Geralt’s wrist, guides it to his very hard dick. “Feel how much I need you to fuck me – “

Geralt tugs his hand free before it even grazes the bulge in Jaskier’s pants. “Jaskier, get it together,” he growls, but there is fear in his eyes.

Jaskier moans. “Shit, I love it when you talk like that.” He feels very hot. His whole body is tingling. The only thing he can think about is Geralt’s cock. And his own, of course. He grabs at Geralt’s crotch, at the row of buttons on his trousers. “Need you, need your cock, please, Geralt,” he mumbles. His own manhood aches with how impossibly hard it is. His balls feel heavy, like he hasn’t fucked anyone in a _year_.

Geralt catches his hands and pins his wrists above his head. One-handed, he starts searching for something in the small bags on his belt.

Jaskier arches off the ground, pushing his hips up, desperately searching friction. When he does not find any, he lets out a terrible, tortured wail. “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck f _uckfuckfuck fuuuuuuck_.” He thrashes against Geralt’s grip on his wrists, but to no avail. “Take me, use me, make me yours,” he pants, “split me open with your huge cock, make me your fucking bitch – I’m yours, _Geralt_ , just yours, _always yours_ – “

Geralt finally finds what he’s been looking for. It’s a small vial of dark liquid. He uncorks it with his teeth, spits the stopper out. “Drink,” he grits out, and pours it into Jaskier’s open mouth.

Jaskier chokes, wheezes, but ultimately swallows most of it. It’s utterly disgusting, but it’s so cold that Jaskier is grateful nonetheless. It is so cold that it quickly cools down his blood. With the burning, the itchiness leaves as well, and when the itchiness subsides, so does the all-consuming need and Jaskier retains control of his thoughts.

He lies there for a long while, catching his breath. Waiting for his boner to go away. “Fuck,” he heaves. “Fuck, Geralt, I’m so fucking sorry – “

It’s not that he does not want to fuck Geralt. He does, a lot. It is not that he’s ashamed of it, either. Jaskier has never once in his life been ashamed, especially of whom he wants to fuck. It’s that it has been rather rude and inconsiderate of him, forcing himself on Geralt like that. Jaskier prides himself on being a classy flirt – he drops the subject the moment he realizes he’s making the other party uncomfortable. It is an art mastered only by a selected few.

“Don’t mention it,” Geralt grunts.

**IV**

Jaskier is freshly heartbroken, by the hands of one Countess de Stael.

It has been a week since she kicked him out of her manor. They screamed at each other about thousands of small unimportant things they disliked about the other. They were both crying. She threw a vase after him and it shattered against the wall behind him, her aim probably impaired by the tears in her eyes.

In the initial melancholy, Jaskier managed to finish composing a new ballad, one that he has been trying to put together for the last three weeks. It spoke of a man’s great love for a breathtakingly beautiful countess and his life-long sorrow when she eventually turned him down. By the third day, Jaskier had already felt much better. It was not that his feelings for the Countess weren’t deep – they were, deeper than the ocean, stronger than the tide. Jaskier _always_ fell deep and he always fell hard; he was not really able to live life in moderation. There was no one for whom Jaskier felt deeper than the Countess. But there also wasn’t anyone Jaskier felt for less.

The thing was that Jaskier and the Countess found out that they both immensely enjoyed having make-up sex. But in order to have make-up sex, they always had to break up. So they blew up on each other every once in a while, just so they could get back together. Make-up sex is always better when there has been some distance, because as they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder – and the dick grow harder. It was pretty much the norm for the Countess de Stael to let Jaskier steep for a few days (he usually just stayed at an inn, wallowing in delicious self-pity, composing love ballads and writing sickly-sweet sonnets to dramatically read to the Countess in bed after they’ve made up) before finally sending someone to escort him back to the manor.

So Jaskier was waiting for her to change her mind and call him back, like usual, but the days dragged on and there was still no sign of a messenger arriving with the Countess’ apologies. Jaskier was starting to feel it in his gut – this time was different. The Countess was probably waiting for herself to change her mind as well, since in the end, Jaskier had waited around for a whole week before a servant came to the inn he was staying at every time they had a row and gave him his spare shirt. That was this morning, and it symbolized a definitive end to their relationship. She has never given him any of his clothes back before. This time, she is not counting on Jaskier ever returning.

That hurts in an entirely different way. A proper heartbreak, not just another one of their pantomimes, the games they had played to blow off steam. The real thing, not the cheap imitation Jaskier was dosing himself with every time he needed to figure out a particularly heart-wrenching rhyme.

He did not know what to do with himself, so he drank.

He only had a small amount of money on him, since he pretty much lived off the Countess for a month or three, which meant he emptied out his coin pouch before he could drink the amount of alcohol that made him feel better. In the mental state he is in, being buzzed is only making him more depressed.

The innkeeper did not take too kindly to a broke drunk sitting around and looking outright miserable and told him to fuck off to somewhere else.

Jaskier did not know where to go, so he just loitered around, hoping the sun and the warm air would lift his spirit a little. He always thought of himself as a man that lived for heartbreak, and only in these heartbroken moments he remembered how utterly horrible it felt. He wondered how he could have ever forgotten, but at the same time, he already knew he'll look back on this one and think of it fondly, just like with all the other ones. Yes, with some distance, this harsh break up will feel inspiring and fun and Jaskier will be feeling much better.

Just as he was pondering his pitiful situation, a gang of local children came running from the nearby forest, eyes wide and full of wonder. “A witcher!” they were announcing to no one in particular, “We saw a witcher! Down by the lake!” One mother heard them and quickly ushered her child home, but the other children continued shouting for the whole town to hear: “There's a witcher fishing in the lake!”

Jaskier felt his his heart skip a beat at this. Could it be _his_ witcher?

“Oi, kids,” he hollered at them, “what does he look like? Does he have white hair?”

“He does!” one girl exclaimed in amazement, probably thinking Jaskier had clairvoyant abilities.

Jaskier's terrible, shitty day, was finally taking a turn for the better. Geralt's presence always brightened up his world. He set off in the direction of the lake, and that's where he's right now, wandering along the shore, hoping to run into a white-haired witcher. His heart still hurts, but the thought of seeing Geralt again holds promise of the pain subsiding.

As he walks, he notices himself starting to sober up, and that is a thing he will not allow. The tipsiness made him feel worse than before, but if he sobered up now, he would not feel better in the slightest. Just as he's starting to worry about that, he remembers the flask he keeps in the inner pocket of his doublet. If he recalls correctly, it should be at least a half-full of some potent spirit right now. He fishes it out, takes a sip. The burn down his throat is exquisite and it takes him away from the threatening point of ugly sobriety. He walks on.

He finds himself singing a stupid song he wrote fairly recently, something awfully cheery and poking fun at Nilfgaard, making it a joke instead of the looming threat in the distance it actually is.

He can't wait to see Geralt again. It has been months since he last saw him, maybe even a year. Jaskier now realizes he has missed him awfully, but hadn't really noticed it for the plethora of earthly delights he had enjoyed during their time spent apart – love, food and wine.

Geralt's timing is truly impeccable.

What Jaskier needs right now is a rebound. The best cure for heartbreak is some good, wild sex, with someone just as good-looking as the person you were breaking up with, but as different from them as possible. Geralt fit that criteria perfectly: the Countess was soft in all the places Geralt is not; always so nicely slick under his fingers, against his lips, around his cock, meanwhile Geralt is cold to him every time they meet – but he's just as beautiful as her, if not more so.

Yes, Geralt will finally fuck him, hard and fast, and Jaskier will feel alright again. Wonderful thought.

“Geralt!” Jaskier calls when he catches a glimpse of the witcher in all the surrounding greenery. “Hello. What’s it been, months? Years? What even is time, anyways?” He hates that he sounds drunk, so he takes a long swig out of his flask, to make himself not think about it.

He watches as Geralt throws the net into the river, not even acknowledging the bard’s presence. Other times, he wouldn’t think about it at all, but right now it kind of stings. They haven’t seen each other in what seems like forever (to Jaskier, anyway) and Jaskier has not even had any time to pick up the jagged pieces of his heart, shattered so cruelly by the Countess de Stael just this morning. He gulps the disappointment down with another mouthful of alcohol.

“I heard you were in town,” he tries again, and when Geralt does not turn around or even just grunt in greeting, he asks, “Are you following me, you scamp?” hoping it will make Geralt react, say something, _anything_ , if only an exasperated _‘fuck off’_. “I mean, I am flattered and everything, but you should really think about getting a hobby one of these days.”

Well, that’s complete and utter bullshit – if Geralt really was following him, Jaskier would be the last person to tell him to find something else to do. He thinks it would be rather nice if _Geralt_ followed _Jaskier_ around for a change, but he knows that is not their dynamic. It’s Jaskier coming with Geralt, not Geralt accompanying Jaskier. Jaskier talking and annoying Geralt into letting him come with. The witcher must be awfully relieved every time they part ways. _Fuck_. The thought tastes bitter in Jaskier’s mouth, so he washes it down, lets the spirit from his flask drag it deep into his belly. He offers Geralt some in the vain hope that at _least_ the fucking drink will make Geralt acknowledge him, maybe even loosen his tongue enough to reply to him.

But when has Geralt ignoring him ever prevented him from talking? Never, Jaskier realizes, and so he decides to stop giving a fuck about whether the witcher is listening to him or not and ramble on. “ _How are you doing_ , I hear you ask.”

“I didn’t,” Geralt finally, finally says. Took him long enough. Jaskier revels in this small victory, relief washing over him at hearing Geralt’s voice again.

“Well, the Countess de Stael, my muse and beauty of this world, has left me. Again. Rather coldly and unexpectedly, I might add.” She didn’t even fucking tell him it was over! She just sent over a _fucking_ servant with Jaskier’s _fucking_ shirt, giving him no _fucking_ closure and leaving him to _fucking_ figure it out all by himself! “I fear I shall die a brokenhearted man.”

He might, unless Geralt shoves his huge, marvellous cock in his ass and makes him forget all about it. Having _that_ inside him will make thinking about anything else – and most of all about stupid, small, insignificant things such as heartbreak – pretty much impossible. This time, Geralt _has_ to fuck him – Jaskier needs it, and not in that horny, fun way, but extremely desperately, just like he needs food and water – needs Geralt to fuck his brains out, purge him of each and every one memory of the Countess until Jaskier feels normal again.

 _Gods_ , he hates love. (He doesn’t.)

“Or a hungry one, at the very least,” Jaskier remarks. “I am starving.” He licks his lips. “I am starved – absolutely starved – aren’t you too, Geralt?”

Geralt just hums distractedly, throwing the fishing net into the lake once again.

“I need something to fill this terrible void inside me,” Jaskier continues, hands idly playing with his flask, the liquid inside sloshing around quietly. “Something thick, and long – do you think you could provide something like that?”

He notices how Geralt freezes, how his knuckles go white around the rope of the net for a split second. Hears the huff of air that escapes him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says and feels the name roll around in his drink-numb yet tingling mouth. His tongue is a little heavy. “For a friend – do you think you could provide it for an old friend? Do you _want_ – Gods, Geralt, I do, I _need_ –“

Geralt pulls the fishing net out of the water, studies it, and then turns his back to Jaskier and walks away. It’s just a few yards, but it is enough to be an answer. For Jaskier, it is as clear as a day; these five steps tell him more than a thousand words ever could.

“Oh, are we not using _friend_?” he snaps, terribly angry at the both of them: at himself for propositioning Geralt, _again_ , and at Geralt for turning him down, _again_. “Yeah, sure!” he exclaims, voice dripping with venom, “let’s just give it another decade!”

Moments later, when Jaskier grabs at the amphora, he knows he is being difficult. But he has been rejected _twice_ today and Geralt said mean things about his singing and Jaskier just wants to be mean in return, to make himself feel better. It’s stupid and petty to steal Geralt’s wishes, but Jaskier, too, never gets what he wants, does he?

**V**

It has been a long day. First, they discovered the corpse of sir Eyck, and then they lost Borch, Téa and Véa to the dwarven shortcut. Jaskier can’t even begin to imagine what Geralt must have felt when they let go of the chain.

Jaskier was right – they should have never come in the first place. It was a stupid idea and Jaskier knew as much when he first saw Yennefer of Vengerberg walk through the door. Yennefer always means trouble. Jaskier knows she is crazy and there is not and never will be a single thing on the Continent, not a single thing in the _whole wide blessed world_ , that could ever make him change his mind – he still remembers, maybe way too clearly, how she threatened to cut his dick off. That is not a thing one forgives, much less forgets, easily, especially if they use their dick as much as Jaskier does.

Jaskier does not like her and, yeah, maybe it’s not _just_ because she almost robbed him of his manhood that one time (but it’s surely up there). Maybe he’s also horribly, painfully jealous of her, and when Jaskier says _maybe_ , what he actually means to say is, _abso-fucking-lutely_. He is jealous because she had known Geralt for less than a day when he first fucked her, whereas Jaskier has known Geralt for more than a decade now and Geralt still hadn’t fucked _him_. He is jealous because every time she shows up, Geralt drops everything he’s doing at the moment just to fuck her, always at her beck and call while Jaskier sometimes has to wonder if he and Geralt are even friends.

Jaskier is jealous. Deeply, irrationally jealous, and it probably has something to do with the fact that despite his heart’s three-second attention span, the love he feels for Geralt has never once wavered or weakened. He might lose sight of it beneath the feelings for another from time to time, but those are fragile, volatile things that come and go. What he feels for Geralt is constant, always there, always unchanging, and stronger than anything he has ever experienced. Jaskier cannot really be accused of having a clear mind, particularly when talking about the matters of the heart, but his love for Geralt is the most rational, most clean-cut thing in his life.

He loves Geralt of Rivia, terribly so, and there’s a green eyed monster living in his chest that sinks it’s claws deep into his poor heart every time Geralt as much as looks at Yennefer.

_“The fairer sex, they often call it, but her love’s as unfair as a crook; it steals all my reason, commits every treason of logic with naught but a look…”_

It’s foolish, Jaskier knows. But it is way too late to fight it now. He wonders if there ever was a time his struggle would bear fruit, but he suspects it was always bound to end up like this. He suspects it was inevitable. He knows Geralt hates hearing about Destiny, but there is no better way to describe the way Geralt keeps pulling Jaskier into his orbit. Geralt would probably say it is a load of crap and that Jaskier needs to lay off the ale and/or whatever it is that he’s smoking, but Jaskier believes that Geralt is his destiny, just like the Child of Surprise is Geralt’s. For Jaskier, Geralt is inescapable. Jaskier would have struggled against being robbed of his freedom in such fashion if he weren’t so godsdamn happy about it. _Being_ with Geralt, travelling with him, is liberating. Jaskier’s starting to feel like there is something missing in his life every time he does not have the witcher by his side and the next adventure looming just around the corner.

Geralt is inescapable and Jaskier wouldn’t have it any other way. If he was not already drawn in, he would set his very being on a collision course himself.

Speaking of Geralt, after they had reached the end of the dwarven shortcut, he helped to set up the camp, but then he perched on a remote rock, watching the land beneath them with a thousand yard stare. He’s still sitting there, even as the setting sun paints the sky red like Jaskier’s doublet. Jaskier is worried about him. It’s not that Geralt’s unusually quiet or distant – Geralt _usually_ is quiet and distant, that’s his whole thing – but after a decade of knowing him, Jaskier likes to think that he can feel when there is something wrong with the witcher.

One thing he knows for certain is that Geralt has feelings. They are buried very deep inside him, hidden beyond miles and miles of sturdy walls, under lock and key. Walls that Geralt had built _years_ before Jaskier was even born, and a key that he tossed away at around the same time. But they are there, and Geralt _feels_ , and ultimately does not know how to deal with that, because he has convinced himself that witchers do not have emotions. Geralt must be disturbed by the events of today – Jaskier knows that he himself is, but he was not the one holding the chain – and he’s probably trying to make sense of what’s happening inside him. Another thing he is pretty sure of is that Geralt probably should not be left alone.

Jaskier wants to take him away from all this dragon-hunting nonsense. Far away from Yennefer of Vengerberg. Far away from death. He wants to take him somewhere Geralt would be able to relax, somewhere he could think about his feeling in peace. Somewhere Geralt would be safe from injury, heartbreak and insane sorceresses.

He finally gathers all his courage and goes to sit down next to Geralt. “You did your best,” he says, softly, and he feels a lump forming in his throat from the weight of today’s events. “There’s nothing else you could have done.” Jaskier wants to hug Geralt, pull him close and never let go, but that probably is not what _Geralt_ wants right now.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, braces himself to lay his heart bare at Geralt’s feet. His voice comes out quiet and thick with emotion. “Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow?” _Leave Yennefer behind, the dragon, all of it – leave it all behind._ Just the two of them, like the old times. “That is, if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.” _Please, I am begging you, Geralt, just one chance, that is all I ask – that is all I have ever asked for._

Geralt’s eyelashes flutter and his lips quirk into the smallest of smiles. He hums, amused, and Jaskier’s heart almost leaps out of his chest.

Jaskier wants more of this. Wants Geralt smiling every day, all the time. He wants his smiles to be an ordinary occurrence – they would be just as precious to Jaskier as they are now and he would treasure every single one of them. He wants to be the one making Geralt laugh. 

“We could head to the coast,” Jaskier continues, emboldened by that wonderful twitch of Geralt’s mouth, “get away for a while.”

He can imagine it in vivid colours: just him, Geralt and the sea. Hot sand crunching beneath their feet. The waves splashing against the shore in a tranquil rhythm. The sun warming them both, it’s light making Geralt’s white hair shine. The vast, incomprehensible _blueness_ of the ocean reaching as far as eye can see and nothing else beyond that. The fresh coastal air that tastes salty on one’s tongue. The itch of dried salt on his skin. Salt in his hair. Salt on Geralt’s lips as he leans close and finally, _finally_ kisses Jaskier for the first time. They would buy Geralt some everyday clothes and he’d hide his armor in one of the bags fastened to Roach’s saddle. There would be no monster-hunting, no contracts. Jaskier would play in pubs and taverns and earn enough coin for them both to live off. Geralt could take a boat and go fishing in the open sea, and then they’d roast the fish he caught over a fire at the beach in the evening. They would talk about both important and entirely insignificant things way into the night. They would make love under the soft, gentle light of the moon. Jaskier would tell Geralt he loves him a million times and Geralt would hum and pull Jaskier close and Jaskier would know that it means _‘I love you too’_.

“Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it?” he feels himself smile a bitter smile. They have only known the man for a short while, but that did not make his death any less impactful. It makes Jaskier think about the fact that he has only been given a limited amount of time here on earth; makes him think about the death that awaits him, sooner or later, on his feet or on his back. It makes him think about how there’s no time like the present. “Life is too short.” _His_ life is too short. Geralt still has countless lifetimes before him, but Jaskier only ever gets one, one that he has to live to the fullest. “Do what pleases you – “ he takes a glance at Geralt’s beautifully sculpted profile, at his golden eyes set ablaze by the sunset, “ – while you can.”

“Composing your next song?” Geralt asks. The sound of his voice still thrills Jaskier, steals his breath away even after all these years. His dreams are made out of that low rumble, shaking him at his very core.

Jaskier shakes his head. “No, I’m just…”

Breathe in, breathe out. Swallow down the tightness in his throat.

“Just trying to work out what pleases me,” he whispers, and places his hand on Geralt’s thigh. He feels his heart beating painfully high in his throat, hears it in his ears. The sensation of Geralt’s warmth under his palm is electrifying.

Geralt does not react, keeps watching the horizon.

_Come on, don’t leave me waiting. Let me take you to my tent and make you forget all about Yennefer, let me show you just how much you please me, just how much you mean to me. Leave with me. Let me take you away. Let me love you._

“Geralt, I – you – “

He’s a bard, he’s a poet, he’s a _wordsmith_ , but right now, he cannot think of anything to say. The only thing he can think is, _please don’t leave me, don’t push me away, just say_ yes _–_

Geralt covers Jaskier’s hand with his own and Jaskier almost cries out in joy, but then Geralt just pushes it away.

 _Oh,_ Jaskier thinks, and it rings around his skull. _Oh._ He feels tears stinging his eyes, and he breathes in sharply to keep them at bay. He will not cry in front of Geralt. He will _not._

He feels rather than sees Geralt get up and walk away.

_“But the story is this: she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss…”_

**\+ I**

Jaskier is cold.

It has been a week since Geralt found him in some small pub, performing bland, tasteless songs for a terrible audience. It has been a week since Geralt apologized for the horrible things he had said after the dragon hunt, and Jaskier, always the hopeless romantic, forgave him. It was not hard to do so – Geralt had wounded him, deeply, but Jaskier’s love for him is even deeper. It might not be the smartest decision, but Jaskier’s heart couldn't make a good decision to save his life.

So Jaskier returned to his rightful place in Geralt’s life.

As it turns out, he had found his Child of Surprise. She survived the fall of Cintra and actually, it was more like _she_ had found Geralt. And together, they had found Yennefer, weak and bloody and exhausted after the battle of Sodden Hill, where many sorcerers fought bravely against Nilfgaard’s forces – and godsdamnit, that would make a magnificient ballad, and he hates the thought of asking Yennefer for details. The three of them settled down in Kaer Morhen, and Geralt, Yennefer and all the other witchers retreating there for the winter started teaching Ciri all they know.

And when everything had calmed down, Geralt set out to find Jaskier and take him to safety as well.

A terribly noble thought, one might say, but currently, Jaskier is _fucking_ cold, so cold he can’t feel his nose or his toes. Winter is definitely just around the corner. He’s trying to get a fire started; meanwhile Geralt is hunting for their dinner. His hands shake with the cold.

“Fuck!” he exclaims as the flint and steel fall out of his hands.

“Calm down,” Geralt murmurs and Jaskier almost has a fucking heart attack. Damn witchers and their irritating ability to move without making a sound. The witcher in question sets down the couple of hares that he caught and crouches down next to Jaskier, taking the flint and steel into his hands. He strikes once, twice, and effortlessly produces a lucky spark that falls onto the prepared wood and quickly starts eating away at the splinters.

Jaskier tries hard not to feel jealous or impressed and fails miserably.

They make dinner in relative silence. It’s was normal that Geralt was quiet and it has not changed during their time apart, and Jaskier is way too cold to babble on. Instead, he thinks. He thinks about what his life will now be, when Geralt brings him to Kaer Morhen. He doubts that the other witchers will like him – it is already surprising that _Geralt_ likes him. And he doubts he will have much to say to Yennefer, especially now that she and Geralt have… _made up_? And were a happy little family with Ciri.

He did not think this one through – he’ll have to exist in the immediate vicinity of _Geralt and Yennefer_. See them holding hands, kissing. Hear them fucking in the middle of the night. Oh, the jealousy is going to eat him alive, he’s sure of it.

Whatever. He won’t stay long. The moment he hears that Nilfgaard is retreating, he will pack his things and go. Go somewhere far away from _Geralt and Yennefer_. Maybe fall in love with somebody else… well that’s the biggest lie he has ever told himself. But it won’t hurt to try.

Jaskier feels a little angry at himself. It is terrible that he has missed Geralt so much and now, when he has gotten an apology – which is something most people could only dream of – and Geralt has promised to take him to safety, the only thing he can think about is leaving Geralt again, because he won’t be able to stomach that the witcher has found happiness with somebody else. Geralt is just being a good friend and Jaskier is being an awfully ungrateful, greedy, selfish bastard. But it’s hard not to be.

It is not his fault that he is utterly in love with Geralt, but then, neither it is Geralt’s. It is what it is. Matters of the heart are at times way too complicated for mere mortals to understand.

He needs to stop thinking about this. He will cross that bridge when he gets to it, just like with all the other bridges he had to cross in his life. There is no use planning ahead – when you have a plan, it is inevitable that something will go wrong, so Jaskier has spent the better part of his life entirely planeless, just composing songs and tumbling in and out of bed with whomever caught his fancy. The more romantic way to say it is that he trusts that Destiny will lead him where he needs to go.

And if Destiny has given him back Geralt, who is Jaskier to complain? He can love Geralt just like this, close but not close _enough_ , close but never quite touching, always just out of his reach, only an inch away from his fingertips. He is already used to this, to loving Geralt from afar, and he can love him just as good as if he were up close, maybe even better, because he won’t be getting anything in return.

Geralt scarcely gives back anything in return, but Jaskier has learned, long ago, that with the White Wolf, one must read between the lines. A punch to your gut means, _don’t call me the Butcher of Blaviken, because I still feel bad about it_. Letting you come with on adventures means, _you are my friend_. Seeking you out, apologizing and promising to take you to the safety of an old witcher’s keep means, _you are my dearest friend_.

“I think I will turn in for the night,” Jaskier says shortly after dinner and gets up to go lay down in the improvised tent Geralt had set up between two big trees.

“I’ll go too,” Geralt blurts out.

Jaskier is confused, but keeps his mouth shut. He crawls into the tent – and finds out that when Geralt was setting this up, he had merged their two bedrolls into one, throwing some spare blankets over them.

“I figured you were going to be cold tonight,” Geralt explains. “I heard your teeth chatter from a mile away.”

Jaskier only nods. “Thanks.” They had done this countless of times – back before they argued – shared body heat when the night was too cold. He knew that Geralt could withstand colder temperatures than him, thanks to his slower heartbeat, but Geralt has, surprisingly, never denied Jaskier the comfort of his warmth. But in the week they have been back together, the night has never been so bad that Jaskier needed it again. He did not expect this, getting so close to Geralt so soon after all the time spent apart.

But Jaskier is not the one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He _is_ cold.

Geralt starts taking off his tunic.

Jakier stares, transfixed by the skin he puts on display, by Geralt’s masterfully sculpted chest. Jaskier suddenly feels terribly small within the confines of the tent. “Um –“

“It’s easier to transfer body heat through skin to skin contact,” Geralt says, like Jaskier has never done this before. But he did. He _did_ , and with Geralt nonetheless, he has simply forgotten. The sight of Geralt’s naked chest makes thinking and remembering very difficult for Jaskier.

“Yes, of – of course,” he stammers, scrambling to get his shirt off as well. This makes him think of _before_ – when it was just him and Geralt, without a care in the world. Those were the simpler times, when Geralt had not known any Yennefer of Vengerberg yet and Jaskier had not known how much he actually felt for Geralt yet. He was perfectly happy then; why did he have to be an idiot and realize the real depth of his feelings?

Jaskier lies down under the covers and then Geralt’s strong hands pull him close, Jaskier’s bare back flush against Geralt’s warm, hard, just as bare chest. _Fuck_. This is what Jaskier’s dreams are made of, of tight embraces and Geralt behind him, a mountain of muscle keeping Jaskier safe. Keeping Jaskier warm. Keeping Jaskier anchored.

It gets Jaskier’s heartbeat racing. He should be used to this by now, he really should, but the heart never plays fair – and neither do other body parts. He soon feels uncomfortably hot. Arousal pools low in his gut. He wants Geralt, so much.

Behind him, Geralt sniffs, and Jaskier feels it against the nape of his neck. “Jaskier,” he murmurs, “if you want something, the easiest way to get it is to _ask_.”

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier whimpers, because that voice does _things_ to him, inexplicable, unimaginable, _wonderful_ things. “I’m asking, please.”

Geralt noses at his neck and breathes in deep, licks a long, thick stripe up Jaskier’s throat, stopping just at his ear, only to lovingly nibble on it. Geralt’s big, hot palm moves up his chest. “Let me kiss you,” he says, his breath ghosting over Jaskier’s ear, his face.

Jaskier turns his head and Geralt captures his lips in a passionate kiss. Jaskier has imagined kissing Geralt so many times he had lost count far too long ago, but the real thing is infinitely better than anything his imagination could come up with. Geralt licks Jaskier’s bottom lip and Jaskier opens up immediately, willingly, and Geralt tastes amazing, like wood smoke and _home_. Jaskier kisses him with reverence, with all his love and longing, with the desperation of too many years of waiting. Kisses Geralt like there is no tomorrow, no Kaer Morhen to get to, no Yennefer of Vengerberg –

 _Fuck_.

Jaskier pulls away. “Stop – Geralt – “ he says, and Geralt does, his golden, glowing eyes wide but confused. Jaskier _cannot_ do this, cannot be just something convenient on a long winter night. Years ago, he would not mind, would be perfectly happy with sleeping with Geralt because there was no one else for either of them that night – but now he can’t. Not when he wants Geralt so much his heart hurts with it, when he wants to belong to Geralt and nobody else just as much as he wants Geralt to be his, only his. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t be a one-time thing when Yennefer is too far.”

“You are not,” Geralt says. “What are you talking about?”

“I get it, I really do,” Jaskier mutters. “You miss her and I’m right here. But I can’t fuck you and then watch you go back to her.” He hopes that Geralt does not tell her about this, because if she knew that he had touched what was hers, she’d probably cut off his dick for real.

“Jaskier, Yennefer and I – “ Geralt hesitates, “ – are no longer together.”

Jaskier blinks in confusion, but Geralt must see it with his witcher light vision.

“I apologized for binding her to me and helped her get better after the battle of Sodden Hill. She had wanted a child for a long time and I thought she could teach Ciri how to tame Chaos, so I took her to Kaer Morhen, but that’s it, I swear.” Geralt rests his forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder. “I don’t feel for her anymore.”

Jaskier considers it for a moment. “…but you feel for me?” he asks, small and vulnerable.

“Yes,” Geralt grunts, “yes, I do, Jaskier. I want you. Only you.”

Tentative silence settles between them.

“ _Gods_ , Geralt, kiss me already.”

And Geralt does, and it’s just as good as the first time, maybe even _better_ – which would sound impossible mere moments ago, but it really is – because Jaskier is giddy with the thought that Geralt of Rivia is _his_. Jaskier’s heart feels like it will burst out of his chest any moment now. There are tears stinging his eyes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier whispers between kisses, against Geralt’s lips, “I have wanted you for _so long_ – I have asked so many times – and you kept pushing me _away_ – “ He’s crying, he feels it hot and wet on his cheeks, but he can’t stop, because he feels _so much_.

“I know,” Geralt heaves, the words warm on Jaskier’s jaw, “I’m so sorry – I will never push you away again, I _promise_ – but I was so scared of what it would _mean_ – “ he bites Jaskier’s throat, starts trailing kisses on his collarbone, “Gods, Jaskier, I was able to smell it on you – _every_ – _single_ – _time_ – it drove me _mad_ – “

How come Jaskier never thought of it? All this time, Geralt knew – even the times when Jaskier did not make a move – The thought makes Jaskier whine, low in his throat. “Yeah?” he sobs, “Can you smell it now? How much I want you?”

“Yes.” Geralt buries his face in the crook of Jaskiers neck and inhales deeply. “Fuck, you smell divine, so _sweet_ and so _needy_ – “

“Need you so bad,” Jaskier agrees, voice shaky. He tastes the salt of his own tears in his mouth, and just as he thinks this, Geralt kisses him again, surely tasting it as well, and that’s so fucking embarrassing, and an embarrassed Jaskier would be an oxymoron at any other time –

“Are you alright, little lark?” Geralt asks.

“I’m fine – it’s just – “ he cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. “I’m fine,” he repeats, “don’t worry about it.”

Geralt kisses the tears off his cheeks and Jaskier feels new ones spill, because he feels so in love, so _loved_ , and his heart swells with it. He’s crying, out of relief after years and years and _years_ of waiting, he’s crying because he loves Geralt with every fibre of his being.

“What do you want?” Geralt asks, one hand splayed over Jaskier’s chest, the other holding his hip, searing-hot even through the fabric of Jaskier’s pants. He licks at Jaskier’s jaw, at his throat.

Jaskier had always had plenty of ideas, plenty of things he wanted Geralt to do to him, wanted to do to Geralt, but right now, when he can finally have them, he’s way too taken aback by this unexpected turn of events that he can’t ask for any of them, not when the hand at his hip pulls him closer and he feels Geralt’s hardness press against his ass. “Anything,” he blurts out. “Anything, please, just touch me – “

Geralt does as he’s told. Without looking, he unlaces Jaskier’s trousers and shoves the fabric down his legs, and then he finally, _finally_ wraps his big, calloused hand around Jaskier’s weeping cock. Jaskier moans. Geralt starts stroking him, rocking his hips into Jaskier’s ass, rubbing his dick against the curve of it, and Jaskier does not know it he should push his pelvis forward, into Geralt’s amazing hand, or back against Geralt’s groin.

“Need to feel you,” Jaskier pants, “I need to know how you feel – please – “

Geralt bites and sucks on his shoulder. Jaskier can hear him struggling with his clothing, and then Geralt’s manhood presses hot and slick with precome against his skin. The hand on Jaskier’s dick disappears and Jaskier lets out a pained wail at the loss – _don’t tease me, Geralt, not right now_.

“Spit,” Geralt orders, voice rough with pleasure. Jaskier realizes there is a hand right in front of his mouth, the hand that was touching him just a second ago – he smells his own precome on it. He spits.

Geralt’s other hand makes him spread his legs a bit, and then Geralt slicks the insides of his thighs with his own saliva. He hisses as he slides his cock in between Jaskier’s legs.

“Sweet Melitele, preserve us,” Jaskier sobs. It’s so good. Geralt is big and hot and _perfect_ between his thighs. He presses his knees together, tries to make it tighter for Geralt, and it must work because the witcher groans, a deep sound that makes Jaskier’s bones rattle and his heart sing.

“Fuck,” Geralt says, “you feel so nice around me, buttercup,” and he rocks into the tightness between Jaskier’s legs, the head of his cock bumping into Jaskier’s balls, sending a jolt of pleasure up his spine. “Can’t believe I haven’t done this sooner.”

Geralt’s hand wraps around Jaskier’s dick once again, and then he starts moving in earnest, stroking Jaskier in time with his movements. He’s kissing his shoulders, his neck, sniffing him, breathing in the scent of Jaskier’s need and his want.

Jaskier feels his arousal coiling deep in his belly, and suddenly, he lets go, with a shout and a sob. Geralt finishes just a few moments later, painting Jaskier’s thighs with his come. Geralt holds him close as they both take big gulps of the chilly night air. The inside of the tent smells like lust and sex and sweat, but neither the bard or the witcher can bring themselves to mind. Jaskier snuggles himself back into Geralt’s strong, warm chest, and he feels content like never before. There are tears drying on his face.

“I’ve missed you,” Geralt whispers, planting a kiss at the top of his head.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Jaskier mumbles.

In the morning, they continue their travel to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier does not plan on leaving anymore.


End file.
